


What Are We, Pickles?

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Although I'm sure Going Downklok had a big hand in that too, And Dethdinner, Angst, Doomstar Requiem kinda left the OT3 busted, IKEA lamps, M/M, Nathan is only allowed to smoke indicas now, OT3, The existential problems of maybe being gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: Nathan and Pickles, as the "most responsible" members of the band, try to figure out what to do next. (It's extremely obvious, but they're just about equally stubborn.)
Relationships: Nathan Explosion/Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer, Nathan Explosion/Pickles the Drummer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 29 prompt, "Monsters or gods."

Nothing had been the same since all that Dethlights shit, and they were all freaking out. Skwisgaar and Toki kept talking in muttered Scandinavian to each other like it was the only outlet that kept them from exploding, and Murderface was in a weird sulky mood and didn’t really want to do anything with anybody, and hardly ever came out of his room anymore. Nathan and Pickles were left trying to figure out how to reassure everyone and make it all okay again now that the album was finished and the band had no clearly defined goals, but it was the blind leading the blind. 

The new manager was no help. Abigail was good, but she simply didn’t know enough about the whole prophecy thing to point them in any particular direction. All she could tell them was, “You guys need to go see Charles.” And she’d been telling them that for months.

After the hundredth time (exactly one hundred), Nathan said, “Maybe she’s right.”

He didn’t say it anywhere she could hear it, of course. He would have said it in Pickles’ room, but they’d been holed up in there for so long that the Klokateers needed a day to clear out all the empty bottles, cans, and other detritus so they could do a deep clean to eradicate the questionable mold that had started creeping up the walls. Instead, they were in Nathan’s room, where the gigantic bed felt dauntingly empty with just the two of them. 

“Who?” Pickles croaked, then let out the lungful of smoke he’d just gotten from the massive steamroller between them. 

“Abigail. About Charles.”

The drummer looked like he’d just bit into something sour. “Dood, we can’t do that. He took ahff.”

“We know where he is,” Nathan pointed out. “That church place has gotta have some answers, even if we don’t talk to him, uh . . . directly.” He took a hit himself and slumped back against the headboard. 

“He  _ runs _ the place now, how ya think we’re gonna get in there without havin’ ta talk to ‘im?” Pickles wasn’t meeting Nathan’s gaze, focusing on knocking the finished bowl into an ashtray (wouldn’t have bothered with one except it was a long crawl to the edge of the bed to just ash on the floor) and packing a new one. 

“Yeah, but—”

“He fuckin’ quit on us, Nathan. No notice or nothin’.”

Nathan growled and leaned forward. “I know, but—”

“He didn’t even help us go get Toki back!” Pickles jammed the downstem back in and started flicking the lighter, growing increasingly annoyed when it wouldn’t light. 

“Hey,” Nathan snapped. He grabbed Pickles by the chin and yanked his head up until their eyes met. “Fucking look at me. Charles didn’t go, that old priest guy did, and he’s dead now. You really think we would be better off now if that had been Charles?”

“. . . No.” Pickles scowled, but didn’t look away when Nathan’s hand dropped. His own hand patted absently at his chest, looking for a dumb gay locket he wasn’t wearing anymore—which was wrong, like the bed that was too big, too empty. 

Nathan saw it, understood, and shook his head. “This isn’t about that,” he said firmly. “It’s about the band, all of us. We’re all freaking the fuck out over . . . what happened. We have to go get answers.”

“I’m not freakin’ out, yer freakin’ out,” Pickles snapped. 

“You’re fucking right I’m freaking out. We set a dude on  _ fire _ Pickles, like . . . really,  _ really  _ on fire, just because we thought,  _ Fuck him _ . And all this weird shit about messages in the music, and we’re supposed to save the world and shit from some fucked up giant asshole who can k—make people hamburger time just by looking at them? And we don’t even know  _ why _ ?” At some point, Nathan’s eyes had started bugging out, and he’d started talking really, really fast. “ _ You’re goddamn right I’m freaking the fuck out!” _

“Okay, okay! Geez, take a breath already!”

“ _ What the fuck are we, Pickles?!” _

Muttering expletives under his breath, Pickles threw himself behind him on the bed and clamped the bigger man in a tight ‘therapy hug’ until the hyperventilating stopped. Nathan struggled a bit, but Pickles’ hung on with wiry determination and rode it out. 

Eventually, Nathan stilled and slumped tiredly onto his side, taking Pickles down with him. Nothing happened for a moment, then, “. . . Thanks.”

“No, dood, I get it.” Pickles sighed into the other man’s hair and relaxed his grip. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone outside under the open sky with that weird new star staring down at them, or the last time all five of them had hung out together in the same room outside of communal meals. . . . Which, come to think of it, they hadn’t been doing as much lately either. Everyone was too jumpy, as if what had happened that one time could happen again at any moment, without warning, because for all they knew it could. 

The two of them just lay there for a while, feeling the pressure of the other three looking to them for leadership, just because they were the ‘most responsible’ ones. Charles had labeled them that, the jackass, and fuck if it hadn’t stuck. They lay there, just breathing. 

Did gods have to breathe? Did monters? 

What if Charles could definitively tell them they weren’t either of those things?

“Fuck,” Pickles grumbled after a while. 

Nathan gave a questioning grunt.

“Yer right. We gotta go and figure out what the fuck is happening.”

“And talk to Charles,” Nathan mumbled. 

Pickles rolled his eyes. He couldn’t see Nathan’s face, but he knew him well enough to know that he was pouting. What a sap. 

. . . Dammit, they were both saps. 

“Fine, and talk to Charles. Well leave tomorrow. Feel better now, big guy?”

Nathan nodded. 

“Okie good. Now get off me, I gotta repack this bowl with something else. No more sativa for you, it’s way too activating.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Holy Priest of Church of the Black Klok has some visitors. It also just happens to be Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 30 prompt, "Halloween." 
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about unshaven Charles, okay. ... And Almond Joys.

Charles was working late in his office when he heard a sudden cacophony of booted footsteps in the hallway outside his office. The din was accompanied by shouts of, 

“Trick or treat!” 

“Schmell our feet!” 

“Gives us somesthing goods to eats!” 

“With nos dairy!” 

“Cinnamin bunnnnns!”

He glanced at the calendar on his desk, raised an eyebrow, and reached for the variety bag of small candy bars in a bottom drawer of his desk, specially packaged to look like regular candy when in fact they were no dairy and sugar free. The scientists downstairs had outdone themselves in making these virtually impossible to taste the difference from regular Reese’s, Milky Ways, Skittles, Starbursts, Almond Joys, Crunch Bars, M&Ms, Skittles, and various different varieties of lollipops. 

Charles himself was quite partial to Almond Joys, which never seemed to get eaten otherwise. He opened the bag and treated himself to one while he waited for the stampede to reach his office door. 

The knocking came as a surprise, though. Since when did Dethklok bother. . . .

* * *

. . . Knocking. 

On his  _ bedroom  _ door. Not at Mordhaus at all. 

He rolled over with a groan and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Just a dream. He’d been at the Church for almost a year, but still woke up with this displaced feeling every now and then, even so. 

The knocking was real though. 

“Just a minute,” he called, climbing out of bed to put on a clean set of robes. Along the way he grabbed his dethphone, which got remarkably clear service in the middle of the ocean for some reason, and checked the time. He hadn’t overslept, but he had at least gotten the date right in his sleep. “Happy Halloween,” he muttered to himself, and went to answer the door. 

“Good morning, your holiness,” the priest at his door said deferentially. “Sorry to disturb you, but . . . They’re here.”

“They?”

“Dethklok. They’re waiting for you in the greeting hall.”

Charles’ heart leapt to his throat, but he dismissed the priest calmly before grabbing a small bag from his nightstand drawer and then hurrying to meet them. The medallion of his office bumped against his chest with each step, and he ran a hand over his hair to make sure it was lying flat. He regretted the amount of stubble on his face from however long it had been that he’d last bothered to shave, but there wasn’t time to do anything about it.

There had been no word from the band in months—a few notes here and there from Abigail, but nothing from the guys themselves. It had stung, but he’d understood. They’d needed time to settle into their new perception of themselves after everything that had happened. And . . . well, he hadn’t exactly left things very well, but he hadn’t known what else to do and Ishnifus had told that resigning was the only way to push them to take the next, incredibly vital step on the way to their destiny. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to see Toki since his kidnapping at Roy’s funeral, there had been too much work to be done getting the Church back in order. 

And besides, he hadn’t been invited. 

But they were here now. That was the important thing, and he was very specifically not thinking about Nathan or Pickles in particular being there. It was too personal, too . . . complicated. 

His first hint that something was wrong came when, upon approaching the cavern meant for entertaining important guests, he didn’t hear anything. Dethklok was usually loud and boisterous, even individually; if all of them were there and not making some kind of a ruckus, something was definitely off. 

Charles walked into the hall and five pairs of eyes immediately fixed on him. No one said anything, or moved, and he faltered to a stop a few feet from the entrance, uncertain. These were not the faces of men who had settled into anything; they all looked drawn and tired, with varying hints of sullenness. Murderface was at the top of the scale for the latter, as though he had been dragged along partly against his will. Skwisgaar and Toki were standing close together, looking like they’d just paused a private conversation to see what was happening around them. Pickles had been pacing in the center of the hall and stood with his arms crossed. The only one who’d taken advantage of the comfortable (for a cave, at least) lounge seating provided for the less assetic sort of visitors was Nathan. 

What was he missing here? Why did they all look so grim?

“Ah,” Charles said, and fumbled the bag from his nightstand table out of his robe sleeve and held it out in offering. “Trick or treat?”

There was a pause in which no one reacted, but then Toki’s eyes lit up. 

“You has candies for us?” He was already drifting closer—Skwisgaar too, as though they tethered to each other. 

“Well, ah,” Charles replied awkwardly, not prepared for the ridiculous lump in his throat from the first hint of positive reaction. “I had some, and I heard that you were, ah, here. They’re sort of like lemon drops, they, ah, it’s the only kind of candy they have down here. It’s not sugar free, but . . . I don’t have a lot.”

Nathan got to his feet and walked over too, then Pickles. Murderface trailed in their wake. They each took a couple of candies from the bag Charles was holding out. 

Then, suddenly, Nathan was holding out something for  _ him  _ to take. “We, uh, brought you some of those almond things you like, even though they’re crappy and weird.”

“Yeah, none of us like ‘em,” Pickles muttered, lemon candies clicking against his teeth as he spoke. 

Charles nodded. He and Nathan traded bags, and in the moment their hands bumped Charles happened to glance at Pickles, and the three of them were very briefly connected—storm cloud, lightning, and earth. It was very apparent that they had a lot to talk to him about. 

He had expected that, but it worried him that something was also bothering the band as a whole. Now that they were here, it was obvious that something was wrong. 

Then that moment was over, and he was holding a quart-sized ziploc bag stuffed full of Almond Joys. 

“Happy Hallow’s Weeds,” Skwisgaar told him solemnly.

“Yeah, just don’t eat it all at oncshe or thesche dildo lickersch’ll call you fat,” Murderface grumbled. 

“Well, this is . . . thank you boys. And it’s, ah, very good to see all of you again.” Charles looked up from his Halloween candy. They’d formed a rough half circle in front of him, just uneven enough that it could look, if he wanted to see it, like they’d formed a complete circle and let him be part of it. 

God, he’d missed these rude, gruff, occasionally deeply and surprisingly thoughtful death metal musicians. Priests were so fucking  _ boring _ . 

“Hey,” Pickles piped up with a sideways smirk, “can we talk about how it looks like you forgot how to shave down here, chief?”

The others started piling in with comparisons to sandpaper, cat tongues, and shark skin, then promptly derailed themselves into a heated debate of whether or not sharks were actually smooth. 

Charles had never felt more at home in his life. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t exactly convenient to find a moment for just the three of them to talk in private, but they did it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 31 prompt, which was whatever I wanted it to be. I chose to continue this.

It wasn’t exactly convenient to find a moment for just the three of them to talk in private, but they did it anyway. 

Actually, it was just a matter of Nathan telling the others, “You guys stay here while we talk to Charles about some stuff.” There weren’t even any protests. Pickles just stood back and watched with his hands in his pockets. 

Charles led them to his new office, which, in contrast to the one Abigail had taken over at Mordhaus, looked like a cross between a library and museum. Half of the books and scrolls out on display were in glass cases, with special gloves built in for reaching in to turn pages and such. Unlike the other rooms and chambers of the Church it actually had man-made walls, to assist with the climate control necessary to preserve the texts. The lighting was better too, less flickering torchlight and more lamps with LED bulbs. 

“You get IKEA down here?” Pickles asked incredulously, poking at a nearby Ranarp. 

“We have to import them. Please, ah, don’t smash any, I have a very limited supply.” Charles cleared stacks of papers and notebooks from the end of one of the long study tables and gestured for the two of them to have a seat. “So, ah . . . what have you come to talk to me about?”

“Uh,” Nathan began awkwardly. He scratched the back of his head, completely unsure of how to start, then gestured to the baggie of Almond Joys that Charles still had to buy some time. “You gonna eat any of those? You look like you haven’t been eating very good and tried to grow a crappy beard so no one would notice.”

Not that it had worked.  _ He’d  _ certainly noticed the hollowed cheeks and tired eyes, knowing full well that Charles was shit at taking care of himself in some ways and needed regular reminders to eat and sleep. 

Charles looked down at the bag as though he’d forgotten all about it. “I, ah, really haven’t been trying to grow a beard, it’s just been a couple days since I’ve shaved. That’s all. And I’m guessing you didn’t, ah, make the trip down here just to scold me about my personal habits.” But he did pull one of the candy bars out and start unwrapping it in his usual fastidious, orderly way. Dude didn’t have that bone in his body for just ripping stuff open like a regular jackoff. “How have you been?”

Pickles kicked Nathan under the table, gesturing for him to  _ just say it already _ . After all, it had been the frontman who’d wanted to come down here and do this. 

Nathan kicked back with a grimace. “Fuck,  _ fine _ . Look, we’re all fucked up because of this weird prophecy shit and the . . . stuff we can do now. So. We want an explanation.”

Charles blinked. “For. . . ?”

“What we are. Now. I mean. What are we?” The stumbling words made Nathan feel like an idiot. He hadn’t wanted to do this part because he’d known it would happen, and he hated sounding like an idiot around Charles. 

“You’re, ah, the chosen ones. You know that.”

The tone was probably meant to be reassuring or something, but Charles had never been very good at that. “Yeah, but. . . .” Nathan frowned. “Do you even know what happened the night we got Toki back?”

“I, ah, did hear some accounts,” Charles said slowly. 

“ _ Dood, _ ” Pickles burst out, so unexpectedly that Nathan jumped a little in his chair. “Stop fuckin’ around and tell us what kinda freaks we are now!”

“Freaks? Pickles, I don’t—”

“Yeah, freaks! We fuckin’ levetated! And there was that weird-ass glowing, and then we killed a guy!” Pickles thumped an elbow on the table and pointed viciously. “The guy that cut up  _ your _ face that night you—”

“Hamburger timed,” Nathan interjected automatically. 

Pickles swiveled, jabbing a finger towards him too. “And you, stop doin’ that! That’s parta the problem, none’a us want to look at what’s happenin’ straight on so when we, fuckin’, accidentally see it outta the corner of one eye we get all freaked out. Well, I’m tired of feeling like I’m about to flip out all the time, and he  _ owes us _ .” He swung back towards Charles. “You owe us, ya douchebag!”

“Pickles. . . .” Charles put the candy bar down. He hadn’t even taken a bite yet. “You’re right.”

“Yer damn right I’m right! . . . Wait, what?”

Charles sighed, and for a moment looked older and even more tired. “I have at least two things I need to apologize for. One is for leaving you boys without saying goodbye, and being too wrapped up in my work down here to realize that you might still need me for any amount of guidance. And the other is. . . .” 

He glanced between the two of them. Nathan stared back, remembering how brutal his own last apology had been, like salty bile in the back of his throat. As much as Pickles needed to hear this, Nathan didn’t—and not because he’d done his own share of fucking up in the past couple years. Nathan knew, like he’d known about smashing the liquid master that time, that rescuing Toki had been important, but he also knew the normal way that they might never have done it without that one final push of the guy who usually did shit like that for them taking off. So it had still been Charles trying his best to take care of all of them and making them do what needed doing, like he always had. 

“I, ah, left without saying anything to either of you,” Charles continued, “despite everything we—well, ah, and then I avoided you by pretending that everything would be fine.” His gaze dropped and he gave a ghost of a shrug. “It isn’t fine. I’m sorry.”

Nathan looked across the table at Pickles, who had a lot more rejection and abandonment baggage than he did, and a longer history with Charles in general. 

“And,” Charles continued, “I’ll tell you boys everything I can find out about your powers, but you aren’t freaks. You’ve just, ah, been given the tools you’ll need to fulfill the prophecy. I don’t know what all they are yet, but we can figure that out together—if, ah, if you want to, that is. If you want my help, it’s yours.”

Pickles mouth was pressed into a hard, stubborn line, but his eyes were starting to redden. As Nathan watched the drummer waver, he decided that it had been a pretty good apology. It wasn’t throwing-up-blood-at-a-podium good, but not everyone could be  _ great _ . 

He bumped his foot gently against Charles’ under the table and the guy looked more his actual age again. 

And then Pickles was out of his chair and on Charles like a fucking boa constrictor, getting snot on his robes and calling him an asshole—but alright, but still an asshole, sorry for the asshole thing, but  _ dood _ , don’t ever fucking just  _ leave _ ever again. 

Nathan, not wanting to be left out, came around behind Charles’ chair and locked both of them in a bone-crushing hug.

They’d stay down at the Church until they figured it all out. And this time, none of them would have to feel alone. 


End file.
